Lachesism
by livewiresandwildfires
Summary: Sometimes the only way to start fresh is to burn it all down and rebuild on the ashes. Alex strikes his match, letting the flame burn down to thumb and forefinger, and flicks it carelessly onto the petrol. He stands back and watches his childhood home go up in smoke.


**Warnings:** character death (not described), mentions of suicidal thoughts

**Rated: **T

**Summary:** Sometimes the only way to start fresh is to burn it all down and rebuild on the ashes. Alex strikes his match, letting the flame burn down to thumb and forefinger, and flicks it carelessly onto the petrol. He stands back and watches his childhood home go up in smoke.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

* * *

"Welcome back, Alex," Mrs. Jones says in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Is that pity? Or just a sad acceptance of the inevitable? "It is good to see you."

That's a lie, and a badly concealed one at that. Both him and Jones would have preferred to never set eyes on each other again. They had parted ways over three years before, and it would have been much better if that had been the end. A happily ever after.

"I do wish it was under better circumstances."

If only wishes were fishes, no man would ever go hungry. Even better, Alex thinks, if wishes were family members, he would not have been orphaned again.

_Again_. For the fourth time. What kind of person has that kind of luck? By now, Alex is beginning to think he had somehow earned this. Offended some kind of higher power, and now he is cursed. Everyone around him dies.

His parents.

His uncle.

Jack.

The Pleasures.

And now it is official: Alex has no one left.

"You're eighteen now," Mrs. Jones continues. True enough, Alex had celebrated his eighteenth birthday just last week; naturally, the world decided to propel Alex into adulthood in the worst way possible, but killing off his adoptive family of the last three years. "So the trust your uncle left you, along with the house, can be signed over."

Technically, the inheritance Ian had left should not be his until he turns twenty-one, but Mrs. Jones pulled a few strings. It is easier this way. Better than finding Alex a new home and a new family for just three years more. Three years that - judging from past experience - was likely to end in tragedy.

Alex is grateful, or at least, he wants to be. Things could be much worse, he knows. MI6 could have left him to his own devices. He could be on the streets - or in jail - or dead.

Still, Alex can't help but think that none of this would have happened if MI6 hadn't been involved in the first place. Mrs. Jones could probably see the hostility in his expression, he did not try hard to conceal it.

"The house has been kept up. You can decide if you want to keep the cleaning staff or not."

Alex can hardly believe they are talking about housekeeping when his family has just been shot to death in a diner. But that's MI6 for you, endlessly pragmatic.

"Security is also up and running. You won't even notice the cameras."

That is a lie, Alex would notice. Even after all these years, the training is right there, under the surface. Paranoia, as some would call it - but is it being paranoid when it is well-founded? His family was shot, after all.

"There is a car waiting for you downstairs."

Alex hesitated, his usual response right on the tip of his tongue. It felt wrong not to say it, so he did: "I'll take the tube."

Mrs. Jones nodded, like she expected it. Alex wondered if there really was a car, or if she had known Alex wouldn't accept it.

Without another word, Alex stood. His heel dug into the carpet as he turned. Muscle memory reminded him of every other exit he had made from this room. His stride hadn't changed much from when he was fourteen, and it still took him the same amount of paces to get to the door.

* * *

Alex couldn't sleep.

He needed to _do_ something about it.

Alex does not want it anymore. Does not want this house, does not want this life.

He gets up. He gets to work.

* * *

Ian always insisted on preparedness. They had a car in the garage that they rarely used - Alex could remember maybe a handful of times when they had driven that car rather than take the tube or walk or bike. The car was kept in top shape, and a supply of emergency gasoline was kept in jerry cans against one wall.

The gas had long since expired, but the airtight containers and the cool room had kept it from evaporating. It would do the trick, Alex thought.

Alex scooped the jerry cans up and lugged then to the front door, one by one. He tossed the yellow-brown liquid around the house - soaking a couch, the floorboards, his childhood bed.

In the bathroom, he emptied the cabinets, scattering toothbrushes and paste and a cascade of bobby-pins on the tile floor. He dumped a bottle of rubbing alcohol out, dousing towels and the shower curtain. An old bottle of Jack's nail-polish remover followed suit. Alex's nose scrunched at the smell. The shelves were lined with aerosol cans, hairspray and febreeze and the likes. Alex knocked them across the room and into the hall with a careless sweep of his arm.

Stomping downstairs, avoiding the rolling cans and the slick patches of gasoline, Alex went to the kitchen. He reached high for a cupboard, one that used to be out of his reach. Now it was easy enough to open the squeaky doors. He reached to the back, fingers closing around the neck of a cool glass bottle.

Ian had never been much of a drinker - but he always insisted on preparedness. The spy - like most adults with children - had not thought Alex would notice. Alex - like most children - was more observant than he was given credit.

The bottle of whiskey was more or less full. Alex unscrewed the top, took a swig (and then another) and smashed the bottle on the ground. Crystalline glass flew out like sparks. Drops of brown liquid coated his shoes. A bottle of scotch received a taste test as well before it was shattered against the drywall. Half a bottle of vodka - that was a full bottle when Alex first grabbed it - went spinning across the room, finding its breaking point against the sitting room chair once belonging to Jack.

Alex's mouth and throat and stomach were stinging, as was the cut he had opened along his palm.

From a lower cupboard, one Alex had always been allowed free access to, he pulled free a bag of unopened flour. Jack rarely had the patience for baking from scratch, and the bag was several years old.

With a steak knife from the holder, Alex brutally sliced the bag. Wisps of white curled upwards, seeking escape.

Flour, Alex knew, had a large surface area. You should always keep it away from the stove when cooking, he had been told. Or toss it freely around the house, he amended, and he did just that.

He nearly laughed as the white powder danced in the air, coating his hands and clothes. Like snow inside.

From a final drawer, Alex found a cheap box of matches. The insignia told him it had been picked up from a hotel - not one Alex remembered staying at, but possibly he had forgotten. Or Ian had grabbed them on one of his many, many business trips.

Pausing only for a moment at the front door to grab the final can of gasoline, Alex stalked purposefully from the house. He let a line of gas leak out behind him, splattering the porch, steps, and front path.

It was dark out - early hours in the morning. Alex was glad no neighbours were around to witness the madness. Not that he cared what they thought - but a boy (man) stumbling (drunk) covered in white powder (flour - nothing else) and dragging a can of gasoline was suspicious, and he did not want the police rolling in any time soon.

Alex dropped the can, a few stray drops puddling on the ground. He took a deep breath, the fumes aching in his head. He steadied his hand, holding the matchbox aloft, thumbing it open. He selected a match with stiff fingers, bracing it against the side of the box.

Sometimes the only way to start fresh is to burn it all down and rebuild on the ashes. Like a phoenix, reborn anew.

Alex strikes his match, and he swears he can hear the greedy flame suck oxygen from the air. The heat licks at his hand as he lets the flame burn down to thumb and forefinger. It tries to find purchase on his fingertips - its only goal to grow and consume.

For a moment, Alex considers letting it. Let the spark grow and catch and run up his arm. Let it burn his nerve endings to a crisp. Let it all end.

But he is not suicidal, never has been. That is why he was so useful - where others curl up to let death take hold, Alex fights. His survival instinct is sharp as a knife.

Flicking the match carelessly onto the petrol, he stands back and watches a line of fire come to life. Racing towards the house; up the driveway, taking the steps of the front porch one at a time. It paused at the door, politely, as if waiting to be granted entry.

Then the wood caught, and the fire does what knows best. Alex watches his childhood home go up in smoke.

The trendles of red and orange snake up the support beams. Smoke billows out of the cracks of windows and under doorways.

Piece by piece, it crumbles. Support beams burning to ash, windows blowing out, whole sections of the roof caving in. In the distance, Alex can hear sirens. His phone is ringing.

Alex does not care.

He stands there, so close he can feel the immense heat, feel the sparks jump onto him. Belatedly, he remembers the splashes of gasoline on his shoes, his trouser legs; the flour on his arms and the alcohol staining his fingers and lips. He dismisses it with only a half step back from the inferno. He stands there until blue sirens dance on the ground around him, and someone is pulling at his arm, dragging him back.

_What happened? Is anyone else in there?_

Alex doesn't answer, he is focused on the stream of water being ejected onto the fire. Too little too late, Alex can already see that. Eventually, they realized too that it is a wasted effort. They decide the only option is to let it burn out.

Alex is so grateful.

* * *

**Lachesism: the desire to be struck by a disaster - to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire**


End file.
